


Don't Sink

by Giroshane



Series: The Bullfighter's Grief [2]
Category: Book of Life (2014)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drowning, Gen, Minor Violence, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 05:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4335407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giroshane/pseuds/Giroshane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death is something Carlos has always had a strange fascination with. Then it hits too close to home and it's too much.</p><p>((Prequel to Drown Me, can be read separately))</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Sink

Why is it raining? Why is it always, _always_ raining? The rain has plagued San Ángel for almost a week now, longer than any storm Carlos has ever seen. It should have moved on ages ago but it hangs, hangs over the town, drapes itself over everyone and everything, smothering the sky. It drenches the town in torrents upon torrents. The town has already suffered damage from the rising lake around them; the residents on the outer edges and lower areas of town have been forced to take refuge at the church in order to escape the flooding. Even the center of the bridge leading to the mainland is submerged (although thankfully not too submerged enough to traverse). It's almost two in afternoon yet it is as dark as night. The rain falls in such thick sheets it's hard to see more than ten feet in front of his face. But ten feet is more than enough.

Too many raindrops sting Carlos's eyes and he lets his head drop, drop back down to the scene before him. He wants the rain to be thicker.

The small gathering of people around him, around _it_ , are no more than shadows, clad in black as they are. His grandmother pulls him back underneath her umbrella gently. She doesn't say a word. No one has said a single word, not that it can really be heard in the deluge, but it's not the rain that's deafening Carlos. It's the _pain_. It's as if the rain is pooling inside of him and filling him up, drops splattering noisily except it's not rain, it's pain. And not the kind of pain that was his body feeling like one huge walking bruise after waking up from his coma. That felt like it would heal. This doesn't.

He sees it before he hears it, the silhouettes of men--his father and uncle among them--and the looming shadow they carry on their shoulders. They are slow approaching, but approaching nonetheless. Carlos wants to look away, but if he looks up his eyes will be stung by the rain, and if he looks down he'll see nothing but mud seeping into his shoes, and if he looks anywhere but _there_ he knows he'll be forsaking his last chance to say goodbye.

He's already said goodbye. He said goodbye when he walked down the church aisle, every part of him shaking, to the open casket at the end of it. He said goodbye when the doctor had sadly made the call only a little over a day ago. He said goodbye  a week ago, when the clammy hand holding his own went limp and his mother's eyes closed, and never reopened. He said goodbye a few weeks before that, when his mother was still walking, still a little ray of sunshine even though she had this strange cough that wouldn't go away, that saw him off to practice in the ring. He's said goodbye to her so many times throughout his life without ever realizing that there would be a time where it would be the last one. He wants to make this one count, even though every breath he takes feels less like a breath and he doesn't know if he'll even have the strength to stand when it's finally time.

He can hear the twins next to his grandmother, sniffling. They're only six years old, and they're girls. They're not expected to be strong like he is, to be a "man" like he is (even though he's only fifteen). Yet looking at them he can tell they're handling the loss of their aunt far better than he is his mother. Even if everyone's eyes were impeded by the rainfall and darkness, they would still be able to see how pale Carlos is, how red his eyes are. No lies about the rain making those tracks down his face would ever convince anyone.  

He doesn't know how his father can do it. The man looks grief-stricken and devastated, yes, but he's walking. He's not shaking, at the threat of collapse, like Carlos is. No one seems to be swallowed up like Carlos is. It's like they don't grasp it, that Rosalia Sanchez is _gone_. The soft-spoken, ever cheerful woman who always sought to make others happy first; the baker's daughter who could make heaven on a plate; the mother who always knew when Carlos was upset, even if he wasn't aware of it himself, and always knew what to say. Hell, she'd probably know what to say to him right now, to make him feel better. But she's not here and the pain won't stop.

Carlos barely pays attention as the casket is lowered into the ground, as his father takes his place on Carlos's right, as the priest delivers a final sermon. All he can think about is her. They say you go to a better place when you die, but is it really true? In the same breath they say life is a gift, a blessing. But if death is better then what's the point?

Carlos can't get his mind to quiet or his body to stop shaking. Tears have been falling silently for a while now; against his will a sob escapes him.

"Mi'jo?" His father lays a hand on his shoulder, but it feels like the weight of the world, and his words like thunder. Why can't everything just be _quiet!?_

Carlos wrenches away and runs. He doesn't say that last goodbye. He runs and runs and runs and doesn't even hear Luis call out to him. Screams are trying to tear their way past his throat but he clenches his teeth against them. He bolts through the soggy streets of San Ángel, trying to get away from the pain and the grief that's eating him alive. He's not even aware of where he's running until he hears the the creak of wood planks and feels the sag of the San Ángel bridge. The sudden presence of the lake startles him enough that his foot catches and he falls, crying out. The impact stings.

Carlos lets himself sob then, weep loudly as he rolls over and pushes himself onto his knees. He's aching and drenched and his head won't stop throbbing and he just wants it to stop stop _stop_. He rakes his fingers through his hair as if that will help. It doesn't.

Finally the cold wins out and his hands drop, taking up the task of rubbing his shoulders instead. He doesn't feel any warmer for it. His teeth chatter as he gazes out across the raging waves of the lake. He's practically halfway across the bridge and the icy water laps around him.

Plenty of times Carlos has thought about death. It's a morbid fascination of his, staring after carrion in the darker alleyways of the town, lingering at gravestones during the Day of the Dead. What was it like? Where did it take you? What happened if you were good? Bad? An animal or a human? Did it always hurt or did it just depend? It was never more than a strange peculiarity until he woke up from his coma. Something changed in him then--or maybe he was just more acutely aware of what had always been there. Randomly days would come when Carlos had no energy, no will. He'd feel nothing but numbness and those were the days where he thought about his _own_ death. What would it be like, if he were to die? Would he feel pain again? Or would he simply fade out of existence, cease to _be_?

He stares down at the water. There's too much inside of him and it roils, shreds into him like the storm around him, and he wants it to be gone. He wants everything to be gone and...and isn't this an opportunity? Right here, in front of him? Everything would give way to cold nothingness if Carlos just fell forward. His thoughts from before keep echoing through his head.

_If death is better then what's the point?_

The worst part, worse than the pain and the cold, is that no part of Carlos is fighting this. When he'd skip rocks across the lake or stare through the pens at the larger bulls his father wouldn't let him fight yet, there would always be a part of him that said no. No to the darkness, no to the uncertainty, no to the sick curiosity. Life held more joys, life was meant for far more than just pondering death. This time there is no part of him that doesn't want this. Carlos knows that's wrong but there's no fight in him. No energy. No will.

He wonders dimly how long it will take him to sink, with his clothes as soaked and heavy as they are.

He lets himself fall forward.

~

Joaquin is helping the stable-master bring feed to the last of the horses when he hears feet pounding past the stable door, and something that sounds almost like a wail. Curiosity as to why someone would be running this fast in this storm gets the better of him and he sets down his bucket and runs to the stable doors. He makes it just in time to see a trademark curl vanish around a corner.

Carlos.

His mother died yesterday. But she had been as good as gone for the past week, Joaquin knows. At least she had passed away in her sleep, peacefully. Carlos, though, Carlos has been falling apart for weeks. He would never admit it to Joaquin, not that it mattered. Joaquin could see it in the way Carlos wasn't reciprocating his insults and stabs at his pride, simply responding with "Shut up, Mondragon" or other such dismissals; in the way he avoided social interaction altogether; in how pale he was; in how he didn't seem to be eating or sleeping. Joaquin had seen it, but he hadn't done anything about it, respectfully letting Carlos have his space to grieve. He had even backed off on their usual rivalry, even though Carlos had tried to maintain it until he became too tired to bother.

But Carlos running away from his mother's funeral? That's concerning. He seemed to be heading towards the lake, and with the condition it's in, that isn't very safe.

"Mondragon, what are you staring at the rain for!" Señor Benitez snaps, bringing Joaquin back to earth. The boy turns.

"Lo siento, jefe. I think I just saw Carlos Sanchez running by." He tells the stable-master. Benitez immediately relaxes, shaking his head and tutting sadly.

"Poor boy. Ain't no worse thing than losing your mother that way."

Joaquin can't help but feel a little chagrin at that. He can't envy Carlos his pain, but still: Joaquin doesn't even _have_ a mother.

"Hey, jefe, is it okay if I go after him?" He asks.

"Leave the boy alone, Joaquin! He's been through enough without you starting another fight!"

"No, no," Joaquin shakes his head. He glances over his shoulder at the storm. "No fighting. I just want to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. You really think he should be running around in this weather?"

Benitez thinks for a moment, bushy eyebrows lowering dangerously. It's always fifty-fifty with Joaquin's boss: one day the portly man will let him get away with practically anything, and the next Joaquin will get yelled at for taking a five minute break. Luckily, it seems to be one of Benitez's good days. He nods.

"Alright, you can go. But only because you helped me take care of the horses in half the time today, Mondragon. And you don't have the rest of the day off, either! I expect you back in a little while, got it?"

"Entiendo, jefe." Joaquin nods. Benitez waves dismissively and Joaquin pulls his hat onto his head. It doesn't seem to make much of a difference when he steps out of the stable and into the downpour--he feels immediately soaked. But his hat manages to keep the rain out of his eyes.

Few lights are lit along the cobblestone street, despite how dark it is. Still, Joaquin knows his hometown like the back of his hand. Carlos had been running straight for the bridge out of town. Joaquin'll start there. He takes off at full speed, not wanting to be in the rain any longer than he has to be. He splashes through puddles and puddles and more puddles, and while normally he wouldn't be so reckless he has to focus on the rain in front of him rather than the water below, lest he crash into a wall. He makes sure to take the shortest way to the San Ángel gates not only because he knows it's the way Carlos would take but also to avoid the flooded areas of the town. The rare storms like this are the reasons why San Ángel isn't always the safest place to live. Joaquin thinks back to the families taking refuge at the church. He's already given up his bed at the adjoined orphanage to one small family, as have a few of the other older orphans. They, instead of the families, slept in bedrolls inside the church itself, on or in between the pews. The past few nights have been pretty uncomfortable in terms of sleep, especially with the peals of thunder echoing endlessly through the great room, but Joaquin knows it's more important for the refugees to have a nice place to stay. He is fourteen, after all; he's not a selfish kid anymore.

He slows to stop as he reaches the edge of the bridge. He can barely make out the form on the bridge, but he's certain it's Carlos. He's sitting on his knees, facing out over the water. Joaquin calls out to him, but it's lost in the rainfall. He starts to make his way onto the bridge when he sees Carlos start to move. No, not move. _Fall._

"Carlos!" He screams, bursting into a sprint. That wasn't an accident, Carlos falling. He could see it: it was _intentional_. Not being knocked off balance or slipping off, it was letting gravity do all the work. It was fucking intentional! What the hell!?

The bridge bounces beneath him. He doesn't make it nearly in time to stop Carlos from falling into the lake. Carlos is gone by the time Joaquin reaches the spot where he had been--actually, Joaquin's not even sure if it is the right spot. The rain is so disorienting he can't be sure. He has to save the fucking moron, but the water is too dark for him to see; if he jumps in the wrong area, he'll miss Carlos altogether and be too late. He would try to look for bubbles of air but the rain's falling too hard. He just has to take that chance. He rips his hat off and braces himself for a cold impact. He dives.

He may have braced himself, but it does nothing to prepare him for how bitterly cold the lake is from the rain and lack of sunlight. He spasms for a moment, every instinct in him telling him to go find warmth. He steels himself and begins swimming, trying not to move too far from where he thinks Carlos is. He can't see a damn thing in the water, and with the storm making the lake turbulent with waves, he could be carried far away from where he needs to be. He reaches out around him, feeling for anything, but he finds nothing. He's forced to surface for air when the burning in his lungs is too much. He's only a little ways from the bridge, closer to the shore. The current may have pushed Carlos out further from the bridge, if that's what it did to Joaquin. He needs to try again. This time when he goes under he reaches and kicks out just for a feel of anything, _anything_ that could be Carlos. The cold is settling into his bones and he knows he doesn't have much time before it'll become too cold for him to keep going. He refuses to think about what will happen if he can't find the bullfighter. He _will_ find Carlos. He _has_ to.

Just when he's about go up for another breath of air, he feels something brush against his side. He reaches back and distinctly feels a wrist, and a hand. Carlos!

Joaquin tightens his hold on the appendage and pulls himself around until he's practically below Carlos, the smaller boy's back to his front. He wraps his arms tight around his waist and begins kicking. At this point he feels like his chest his going to burst for lack of air, and his body is starting to go numb. For a split moment Joaquin's mind goes totally black, and every part of him goes limp. He doesn't know how he fights back to consciousness but he does, in more pain than ever.

He breaks the surface with a gasp, pulling as much air into his lungs as he can. He has Carlos in front and slightly above him, and his legs burn from the effort to keep them that way. He can barely see with the water in his eyes blurring his vision, but it appears the shore is closer than the bridge, so he swims for it. Carlos is nothing but dead weight, completely unconscious. Joaquin can't even tell if he's breathing.

"Come on, Sanchez." He pants, trying to jolt the boy's chest in the way he's seen the doctor do once. It's hard when he only has one arm from behind to do it with, still in a churning lake, with three other limbs doing something else, but he does his best. Joaquin can feel ground beneath his feet when Carlos finally splutters back to consciousness. He's heavily disoriented and barely conscious, but he's alive. Joaquin's essentially dragging him now, out of the water, up the hill until they're under the big tree. It almost completely blocks out the rain, providing shelter. This is where Joaquin drops Carlos.

Carlos is practically convulsing from the force of his coughs. He lands on his hands and knees, but that only lasts about a second before he rolls over onto his back. When he finally blinks his eyes open, it sends chills up and down Joaquin's spine. Carlos's eyes are completely glazed over, like he can't focus on anything. He's never seen Carlos look like that before, and it pisses him off because Carlos isn't _supposed_ to look like that. He's supposed to be the prideful little goody-two-shoes, the spitfire Sanchez who won't back down from any challenge. This? This looks like someone devoid of _life_. Someone already dead on his feet.

As Joaquin drops to his knees besides Carlos, shivering from the cold, he knows he should feel concern and worry for the boy, but he doesn't. He feels _furious_. He never believed emotion could change a person's temperature but he feels rage in him like a fire and maybe he doesn't stop shivering but he stops noticing it.

"W-why," Carlos croaks, still coughing a little, still disoriented. He props himself up a little on his elbows. He doesn't even seem to be aware that Joaquin is there in his confusion. "Why am--am I al-l-live?"

Carlos doesn't say it but Joaquin can hear it and it's like someone pulling a trigger. _I should have died_. Joaquin doesn't even fully register it but suddenly his fist lashes out, there's a sickening crunch, Carlos head snaps back from the force of it and he drops back down with an agonized cry.

" _Why are you alive?_ " He roars, seizing Carlos by his collar. "You're alive because you're _supposed_ to be, you goddamn, mother _fucking fool!_ "

He punches Carlos again; it feels good. When Carlos looks at him it's with pain and fear and it's _relieving_ to see anything other than that blank, sightless stare. He'd give anything not to see that look again because--not that he'd ever admit, not even to himself--it _scares_ him. No one should be so...so _empty_.

Carlos is too weak to fight back as Joaquin keeps punching him so he settles for defense, raising his arms to block his face (not that it does much good).

"Let go of me!" He tries. Joaquin's still seething. He punctuates his sentences with hits.

"What, so you can try and drown yourself again!? So you can just abandon everyone you love!? What the _fuck_ , Carlos!"

"Stop it! Stop it!"

" _Why_ , you moron? Why did you think this was a good idea? Were you even thinking of anyone else but yourself, you selfish prick!" He's yelling so much his voice is cracking, and as much as he hates that fault of puberty he can't stop. "Why, Carlos? You're fifteen! You're fucking _fifteen_ and you thought _now_ was a good time to die? There's so much you haven't done and you're just _giving up!_ _Why!?_ "

"Because it hurts!" Carlos finally screams. The anguish in those words makes Joaquin stop, fist raised in midair as he breathes heavily. Carlos is a bloodied mess from Joaquin's attack. Joaquin can tell he'll have a black eye tomorrow, if not two, his lip is split, and his nose has been broken and bleeding since Joaquin's first blow.

"It hurts too much! There's all this _noise_ in my head and n-no matter what I do it won't stop and I c-can't stop it and some days it's too much! _Please, stop!_ " The boy cowers below him. Suddenly the fire in Joaquin's blood chills down to ice.

Carlos never begs.

Joaquin's fist drops.

"Why..." He pants, "why didn't you tell anyone?"

"I d-didn't think anyone'd und-derstand." Carlos says weakly. He's shivering badly. "I didn't have anyone to t-talk to."

"You had me." The words are out of his mouth before Joaquin can stop them, but then he realizes they're the truth. "You could have told me."

"What, so you c-could call me a coward?" Carlos spits. "So you could s-strut around all confidently knowing you were better than me? 'At least I d-don't take the coward's way out'!"

"No, Carlos!" Joaquin shakes his head. "This is different. This isn't about me being better than you or you being better than me. This is about your well-being. Just because I think you're a piece of shit doesn't mean I want to see you dead."

Carlos only stares up at him. He looks a little dazed, or confused.

"Look, your mother? This? I'm not going to touch it, alright? This isn't something you can control, and it's not something to use against you--it's not honorable, so I _promise_ you I never will. Got it?"

Carlos still looks confused. Joaquin shakes him a little.

" _Got it_?"

"S-sí! Sí..." Carlos stammers. And, because there's still a little ire left in him from before:

"And here's another promise," Joaquin jabs the boy in the stomach, producing a pained grunt, "I'm _never_ letting you jump in that fucking lake again, te pequeña mierda."

He finally lets go of Carlos's collar then; Carlos drops to the ground with a thud and a cough. He rolls over and curls into himself, still shaking. Joaquin is shaking himself. He sits back and draws his knees up to his chest, rocking back and forth a little. He wouldn't be surprised if they both wound up sick from this. They stay like that in silence until Carlos speaks up.

"How d-did you know I was even out here?"

"I saw you run past the stables and followed you." Joaquin answers simply.

"B-Benitez let you go?"

"Yeah."

"Must be one of his--his good days."

Joaquin huffs a short laugh. After all that just happened, _this_ is the conversation they're having. Small talk. Still, he hears a faint, quiet chuckle from Carlos, and if small talk is what will get Carlos living life again, then so be it. He sighs.

"Come on. If we die of cold and wet then I'll have saved you for nothing. And Benitez will have my hide." He stands and needlessly brushes his pants off. Much good that'll do--they’re soaked and covered in mud. Both boys are. He reaches out a hand for Carlos to take.

Carlos rolls over and takes it. He uses Joaquin to pull himself to his feet, but he's still weak and unsteady and he ends up leaning heavily on Joaquin for support. Joaquin drapes Carlos's arm over his shoulder--to no protest. Carlos is still too tired for that. They slowly make their way to the bridge, and start across it.

"Never speak of any of this." Carlos says.

"Didn't plan on it." Joaquin replies.

"And if anyone asks, I tripped down a flight of stairs."

"That's one hell of a trip, Sanchez." Joaquin snorts.

"Well you're one hell of un bastardo loco, Mondragon."

Joaquin laughs.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! The prequel to Drown Me. I'm really not sure how good this fic came out, I know it deals with a lot of sensitive issues but I couldn't resist.  
> Since we have little to no information about Carlos's mother, I had to invent my own version. Poor Rosalia ;~;  
> And I always assumed Joaquin was an orphan who then made a name for himself by enlisting in the military so...  
> Anyway...hope you...enjoyed?


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